My Name is Victoria Phibes
by PeekabooFang
Summary: Crossover with the Dr. Phibes movies. My take on Victoria Winters's origins. Let's just say there's a reason she's always felt like she belonged in the past...
1. Chapter 1

**SUPER READ FIRST: I wish there was a "macabre/silly" option when setting the genre for stories, because I think that would be suitable here. As you can tell from the description, this is obviously a crossover between "Dark Shadows," which is my favorite campy TV show ever (well, tied with original Star Trek), and the '70s cult movies starring Vincent Price, "The Abominable Dr. Phibes" and "Dr. Phibes Rises Again." This story starts off right after the latter movie's ending, then blends into "modern day" Collinsport, which I guess is late '60s/early '70s. I'm not thinking of any particular plotline going on for Dark Shadows fans to keep track of. For example, there's no Adam lurking about (yet) or Barnabas out stalking anybody. I guess you could place it roughly after Burke's disappearance/death thing and in the middle of Barnabas's obsession with Vicki. I don't know if the 1795 séance has happened yet…if it has, just assume Vicki forgot everything (whoops) and Barnabas left things at that. So...things are slightly AUish? Only not really. Heh. I do warn you, though, later on there might be some romantic pairings involved that will befuddle seasoned fans, making them echo one hon. Scooby-Doo, esq.: "broo?" That's just the way I roll, baby.**

**If you haven't seen the Phibes movies, you can currently check them out on YouTube, or else I'm sure they're available on DVD and Netflix. But I warn you: they are VIOLENT and GRUESOME. At least to a wimp like me. I actually skipped over or turned away from the more bloody parts and focused instead on the gothic romance while watching them, because I'm a total sap. Anyhow, a quick run-down: the maniacal, deformed Dr. Phibes, a renown organist and dabbler in the occult, is obsessed with reviving his dead wife Victoria, no matter who he has to kill in creative, macabre fashion, getting help from his faithful and mysterious assistant Vulnavia along the way. Gee, DS fans, who does this romantic and violent character remind you of? Anyway, because of these thematic similarities, I did start thinking about Dark Shadows, and how strangely coincidental it is that Phibes' wife and Dark Shadows' protagonist share the same first name along with the fact that, at least in my opinion, both women sort of resemble each other physically….**

**So. Remember while you're reading this: macabre/silly. Oh, and disclaimer: don't own or have any of the rights to either Dark Shadows (Dan Curtis Productions does) or the Phibes franchise (MGM does). Now go!**

* * *

Angelique stood quiet at the river's edge, her long gown a bluish-white in the underground cave's irregular light.

She cared little if the waters touched her feet. After all, she had already been resurrected, so what did it matter?

She made a strange but lovely figure in this empty underground lair, for she was the first visitor to stand on the River of Life's shore in over seven centuries. This bank was located miles beneath the Pharaoh's Tomb in Egypt, which required a lengthy, winding journey by raft to reach. It was a daunting voyage, but those who made it had the ultimate goal in sight: immortality or resurrection.

Angelique waited for one who sought both.

Her unique jade eyes pierced the darkness surrounding her, focusing on the boat that was to come. The boat that was predicted to come in Vulnavia's prophecy.

Angelique's lips curled into a kittenish smirk. _Yes, the great Vulnavia's precious prophecy, _she inwardly jeered. _I'm absolutely certain Nicholas wasn't supposed to get a hold of _that _one. _

Still, through nefarious methods unknown to Angelique, the warlock had indeed uncovered the prophecy, and had deigned to bring it to her attention. The witch was no fool; she knew that Nicholas was not an altruistic man and that he no doubt expected something in return. For some reason, he wanted to stop this prophecy from occurring as much as she did. She bristled, hoping that Nicholas's desires did not conflict with hers. But she would confront that possibility later. She was right now too anxious to get what she wanted out of this excursion.

Her eyes grew steely with resolve as she recalled what the prophecy had foretold:

_Victoria Phibes shall bathe in the River of Life and be resurrected, and will one day win the heart of Barnabas Collins, replacing Josette DuPres Collins in his affections._

Her blood grew hot at the very memory of those words. "Remember, Barnabas," Angelique whispered to the cool, damp air, "Everyone you love shall die…even…." Her eyes lit up. "Even if you have not yet met them."

She swallowed her mocking laugh and stiffened, alert as a scavenging lioness. She heard a strange, ghostly singing in the distance.

As she hid behind one of the pillars bordering the great river's shore, she also heard an oar lap at the water. The singing continued, clearer now and with less of an echo. The singer's voice was raspy and elegant, yet with a jerky, almost mechanical cadence.

_Somewhere over the rainbow_

_Way up high,_

_There's a land that I heard of_

_Once in a lullaby._

Angelique paid little attention to the melody. She didn't know it, but Nicholas had only resurrected her two weeks prior. How was she, a witch murdered in the year 1795, supposed to know a tune that was presumably popular in the year she now found herself in, 1928?

She had no way of knowing that the song was actually written ten years later. But if she had known, she would not have been surprised.

For she knew that the man singing and rowing the boat, Dr. Anton Phibes, was half god, related by blood to his helper and confidant Vulnavia. So he, too, had insight into the future, though of a very limited range.

Peeking from behind the pillar, Angelique studied the strange forms approaching the river's end.

Anton Phibes stood on a raft covered in white lotus flowers, the man dressed in a ceremonial robe of the same color. He was positioned at the back of the raft, staring down with great reverence at the supine body that took up most of the conveyance.

There, before him, and in front of Angelique's searing eyes, lay the preserved body of his deceased wife Victoria, inside the crystal coffin Egyptian princesses had been laid to rest in millennia ago.

Angelique's teeth clenched as she took in the girl's beauty from what she could see of it beneath the glass. Victoria Phibes' presence was so lovely and innocent that even in death her image was haunting. Like her husband, she was clothed all in white, feathers bordering her silken dressing gown. Her long hair flowed down her shoulders, and her porcelain skin made her petite and fragile features stand out starkly against the dark mane framing her face.

Yes, her beauty was indeed as great as Josette's.

Angelique's fingernails cut into her curled palms.

At last the raft docked into the bank, and Phibes, gingerly avoiding disturbing the crystal case of his beloved, stepped onto the shore.

He lifted his hood. Angelique could not suppress her curiosity as her eyes ran over his countenance. For all the stormy emotion evident in his pale blue eyes, the face of Anton Phibes was strangely immobile. Angelique knew why.

It wasn't really his face. He wore a mask and wig made to resemble the head of a man in his mid-fifties with shaggy gray hair, long mustache, and aquiline nose, all evidence of his aristocratic background and eccentric nature.

That was what Anton Phibes once was, and still affected being. But beneath this lifelike cover was a face scarred and deformed by fire, until it resembled nothing more than a blood-colored skull.

The flames had ravaged him the same day, seven years prior, that he lost his sanity–for the unfortunate occurrence had taken place because Phibes, in a frenzy, had urged his poor driver to hurry, hurry, hurry the car toward their destination, and the harried chauffeur had raced instead over a cliff by mistake. The resulting accident had taken the driver's life, but Phibes, scarred and broken, had survived the wreckage, unknown to the authorities.

Yet this was not what took his rationality away, or any sense of moral fiber left in him. He had been urging his driver so heatedly because his wife–his beloved, his sweet, his precious wife! –was undergoing emergency surgery. The highly skilled team of nine doctors, surgeons, and nurses that the organist demanded for his wife's care had failed to keep her alive.

When Phibes emerged from his near-death experience, he had discovered that Victoria was dead. His physical life was saved, but with Victoria's death his real life was gone.

And malice and insanity took hold.

Nine killed her. Eight died. One was spared…but that was another story. Phibes eagerly awaited this next chapter, when he and his noble queen would be reunited in each other's arms and hearts once more! Once more and forever more!

He knelt down beside her, tracing a gloved finger over the glass by her face. The accident had also damaged his tongue and vocal cord, but the brilliant doctor, combining his knowledge of music and science, was able to fashion a hose connected from the side of his neck near his windpipe to a gramophone in order to speak. The gramophone was now located at the edge of Victoria's coffin.

He spoke to her now, Angelique once more noting the jerky, robotic rhythm of this inhuman voice. He stared lovingly at his wife, but because of the contraption sticking out of his neck, his lips remained still.

"My sweet Victoria, we have at last reached our destination. Soon you will again be by my side, and not even death shall part us!" The mechanical tone of his voice served as a strange contrast to the passionate words he spoke. He delicately lifted the coffin's lid, and Angelique was struck by the heavy lilac scent that wafted outward.

_How well Dr. Phibes preserves his little embalmed bride, _she observed sardonically to herself.

Although the mask Phibes wore was practically lifelike in its similarity to his original face, heavy emotions were often beyond its powers of expression. Yet Angelique could detect a gentle smile forming. He leaned forward and stroked his darling's hair. "Yes, my love. Very soon now. And then Vulnavia will guide us through the portal of the gods, where I shall claim my birthright as the son of a goddess. You shall be my immortal queen. My dear maternal aunt Vulnavia has served all this time as Athena to my patient Odysseus. Like Odysseus, I too have been fighting, slaving over the years to return to my sweet and faithful Penelope…my Victoria," he cupped her cheek. Then he stood, and unhinged the side of her coffin.

"And now, my love, comes the final task. I shall take you in my arms, where you shall lie lifeless for the last time. I will place you in the water, where it shall wash over us both, and after only a few moments you will return to life, and we both shall be immortal, like the god I truly am and that you soon shall be."

With regal grandeur he gently lifted his wife in his arms, placing her at the raft's edge. Straightening his robe, he turned to loop the raft's rope securely around the pillar….

But it was caught, instead, by a sleek and feminine hand, accompanied by a harsh and elegant laugh. "Oh, I don't think so, Dr. Phibes."

Phibes' eyes, the only true portal to his feelings, stared with indignant rage at the haughty Angelique, revealing herself from her hiding place. "Who are you?" He demanded.

"An interested party," she said, walking gracefully down to confront him. "You can call me Angelique."

"Angelique?" He asked swiftly, looking her over. "I do not know that name."

"Then here's one you might know: Nicholas Blair," she whispered teasingly.

His eyes snapped fire. "_Blair? _The warlock?"

"Yes," Angelique laughed again. "And your dear aunt's archenemy."

"Yes," Phibes' gramophone hissed. "Yes, I know of the power struggle between them…she spurned his pleas to turn him from a sorcerer to a god and he vowed to gain powers equal to, and even stronger, than hers!"

"And he has almost succeeded. That is, I know he's now _at least _as powerful as Vulnavia is."

"What interest does Blair take in my plans?"

Angelique shook her head slowly. "Not _his _interest." She pointed at her face, staring him down. "_Mine."_

Phibes returned her glare. "You? Who and what _are _you?"

Angelique shrugged carelessly. "Hm. I see no reason to deceive you. I am a witch. I died over one hundred years ago, but Nicholas revived me. He warned me of…_her." _With violent contempt written all over her face, she glued her eyes on the lovely Victoria's body.

Phibes instinctively blocked her view, cloaking his beloved. "Warned you of _her_? What about her? What interest should you take in Victoria? In life, she was an innocent mortal from a good family, a family of oil barons and aristocrats, but with no ties to the occult. What could my darling have done to you, a witch, to make you look at her with such hatred?"

Angelique's blazing eyes seemed to sear through Phibes' midsection, to where Victoria still lay motionless at the edge of the raft. "I'm not interested in what she _was. _I am interested in what she _will be."_

"And what is that? A goddess?"

Angelique's voice became timorous with ill-concealed rage. "A rival."

She took a menacing step forward, raising her arm straight before her. She spoke in demanding, clear tones…but not to Phibes. "O, Dark Powers of the universe! Hear my cry! Give me fire to reduce to ashes the one who stands between me and my dreams!"

Panicking, Phibes rushed toward Angelique to halt her progress, his arms out to block her from Victoria. "No! Stop! I will not allow it! Leave her be! Be gone, witch! Be gone before I strike you down!"

Angelique lifted her arms skyward, and as she spoke, the water began to ripple violently, a gale of wind suddenly sweeping down against those assembled. "Dark Powers! Give me what I ask! Fire to the body, the body to ashes! This I demand now!"

Phibes tried grabbing her by the throat, but the witch halted his hands with a flick of her wrist.

The organist struggled against her force. "I…have…no choice…." Focusing all his energy into one word, he cried as the wind howled around him:

"VULNAVIA!"

The name resounded like thunder throughout the stormy labyrinth.

Angelique gasped as her powers suddenly froze, the wind and water calm, still.

But just as suddenly, the earth shook around them as white light blasted at Angelique, causing her to cry out and shield her eyes. A large, iridescent portal appeared, and both doctor and witch could see the shape of a lithe and graceful woman come nearer and nearer to the portal's opening. Out stepped the raven-haired beauty, bedecked in Egyptian finery and majestic as the sun.

Usually mute in human form, Vulnavia broke her silence to answer Phibes' call. "Yes, my nephew. I have come."

"_You!" _Angelique spat. "Nicholas was supposed to detain you!"

With a quiet but still self-assured dignity, Vulnavia glanced down at the cowering, incensed Angelique. "You flatter Nicholas's abilities. He has retreated." She turned to her nephew, reaching out her hand. "Come, Anton," she said. "You and your beloved must join me now on the other side."

A gleeful Phibes bowed his head in thanks to the beautiful goddess. "Thank you, Vulnavia. You have again served me well, and in timely fashion."

He made to embrace her, but was stopped by Angelique's blood-curdling, hysterical laugh.

From where she crouched by the river's edge, the witch pointed with brutal ecstasy at the water. "HA! Look! Look, Phibes! Look at what your love and devotion have done to your sweet Victoria!"

Phibes whipped around and horror, unlike any he had known since first learning he lost Victoria in the hospital, filled his very soul.

Whether in his struggle with Angelique, or from the rocking waves and winds caused by her attempt at black magic, or from the tremors caused by Vulnavia's entrance, the raft had somehow overturned, plunging Victoria into the river's depths.

"No…no!" Phibes cried aghast.

A few seconds submerged just barely beneath the water's surface was all that was required to either revive or give immortality to a human being.

But left too long and too deep in the waters….

As Phibes stumbled blindly for his wife through the dark stream, he could see her regressing from the beautiful young adult she had been when she died to returning to her formative years, her pre-adolescence, her childhood….

His godly blood protected him as he grabbed for her, only sending him back about fifteen years.

But he was too late for Victoria.

When he finally pulled her from the water, he found he held a squalling baby in his arms.

Angelique's deafening laughter blended with the newborn Victoria's cries as Phibes, in a haze, stumbled back to the shore and collapsed to his knees at his goddess aunt's feet.

"Gone…all gone…." His gramophone voice intoned, its speaker broken with despair. "She has regressed too far for immorality. All of my hopes and dreams, the eternal life I envisioned with my one dear treasure…." He looked down dumbly at the cradled creature in his arms. "All…all gone."

Vulnavia grasped his shoulder in sympathy. "My apologies, dear Anton," she whispered. Angered by Angelique's continuing laughter, Vulnavia struck her a heavy blow to the cheek, sending the witch careening against the pillar. Angelique slid unconscious to the ground. Just as his inhuman blood protected Phibes from a fate similar to Victoria's, so did the magic coursing through Angelique's veins keep her alive in her unconscious state, whereas a mortal would have been felled for good at Vulnavia's hand.

Before the goddess could comfort the shattered husband further, the ground started shaking again. Light similar to the one proceeded by Vulnavia's entrance pierced the darkness, growing brighter and stronger by the minute. Another portal was slowly forming to the left of Vulnavia's. A man's voice vengefully calling her name filled the air.

"Nicholas," Vulnavia whispered. Taking Phibes by the shoulders, she helped him to his feet, and stared him deeply in the eyes, willing the grieving man to focus. "My nephew," she said. "I must make haste and escape the wrath of Nicholas Blair. Angelique _was _correct in her assessment of his powers. They have grown considerably since last I saw him. It took all my powers to defeat him in battle, but he has obviously recovered. My suspicion is he has aligned himself with Diablos, of whom both you and I have had dealings with in the past. He is coming soon, and I must protect myself. But," she placed a hand on the baby Victoria's head. "I claim responsibility for what has happened to your wife. Perhaps it was the tremors brought about by my own powers that resulted in her fall into the waves. I will make this up to you. For whatever reason, Nicholas wants her dead. I…I will protect her."

"How, dear Vulnavia?" Phibes asked sadly. "I would give worlds for her to be safe, particularly in this vulnerable state. But where can she forever be safe from Blair's wrath, if he is so powerful?"

She tilted her head, analyzing him. "You are willing to wait for her? No matter how long?"

Phibes nodded his head slowly, emphasizing his sincerity. "Until the end of time, if necessary, Vulnavia."

She raised an eyebrow. "Not that long." She stared into the distance, past the growing white light and into the darkness. "I feel the forces gathering to warn me. There is a place I am being beckoned to…a great ways off…in another time…there I must go, and there I shall take Victoria and leave her in safe hands."

Phibes wrapped tight and protective arms around the small Victoria. "Where? When?" He rasped.

Vulvania's wide eyes still stared unseeingly into the air around them, and she answered in a far-off voice. "I will know not where…and I will know not why…until I am there…. the forces of my magic shall lead me." Returning to reality, she stroked Phibes' cheek lovingly. "Come. Give me Victoria. She shall be safe. You will take the path I have already laid out for you." She indicated the portal she had previously walked through, competing for vibrancy with Nicholas's growing one. "You will live in the Other World with your godly ancestors, who shall await you with open arms." Her eyes twinkled as she reached out and removed his mask. Its fleshly duplicate at about age thirty-five was now the face underneath, hair dark and cheeks ruddy with health. Somehow sensing the change, Phibes gasped, and felt his face with one free hand. "You are no longer a shambles," Vulnavia explained. "The river has healed you completely. When the time comes that Victoria is grown and safe, you may seek her out and woo her back to your side. Go now!" She kissed his cheek, and reached for the child.

With feigned stoicism, Phibes reluctantly released his hold on his wife, now so small and helpless. He watched as his aunt cradled Victoria to her chest, and then turned her head skyward. She closed her eyes as another gust of wind blew into her, causing her and Victoria to fade into thin air. Phibes felt a great stab of anxiety and rushed forward, but they were already gone.

The gentle flowing of the river rushing against the bank was the only sound left in that dark, unearthly cavern.

Phibes feebly lifted his hand to where Victoria had rested in Vulnavia's arms. "Farewell, my beloved," he said aloud, the gramophone also starting to become unnecessary. "We _shall _meet again. And this time _I will not be defeated." _He stared venomously at Angelique's form as the witch began to moan and twitch on the ground, fighting for consciousness. His hand clenched as he contemplated destroying her once and for all, and he was about to act when the light from Nicholas's portal burst forth again, with more and more vibrancy.

He could not fight them both.

No. Not yet. But soon, someday, Anton Phibes would have his revenge on Angelique and Nicholas Blair _both. _

He turned and saw his wife's dressing gown wash ashore. Reaching down and clutching it as a lifeline, he pressed his face into its soft material, breathing in the faint lilac scent that still clung to its folds. Then, turning his eyes toward Vulnavia's portal, he strode forward purposefully into the light. As he disappeared into his ancestors' home world, the portal shut behind him and he was gone.

Only a few moments later, the other portal that had been struggling for life finally opened completely. Its crisp white mist poured into the river's edge, slowly awakening Angelique. From the thick haze of the portal stepped out a dapper gentleman, jauntily twirling his walking cane. He was dressed impeccably in late 1920s fashion, a sleek trilby in his other hand. His dark, handsome face looked casually peeved, his slick black moustache twitching with mild curiosity as he suavely took in his surroundings. This careless front turned immediately to fury when he saw Angelique lying in the corner, still stirring into consciousness.

"_You! _You incompetent bungler!" He yelled at the now fully awake, though slightly dazed woman, who was struggling to sit up. "You've failed, haven't you?" He fumed.

Recovering, Angelique pushed herself to her feet, quivering with self-righteous anger. "You are the one who has failed, Nicholas! You were supposed to destroy Vulnavia! How could I, unpracticed in magic for over a century, be expected to compete with a goddess on my own?"

"Don't make me laugh, Angelique," Nicholas sneered. "Even at your best you are no match for Vulnavia."

"Neither are you, apparently," Angelique retorted with a sneer of her own.

"I will have none of that talk!" Nicholas snapped. "Remember, you are under my power and my power alone!"

Remembering the catastrophe on their hands, Angelique rushed to him, grabbing his arm. "Nicholas, what do we do now? Victoria…she fell into the water too long and has regressed into a baby!"

"So, she _is_ still alive, then," Nicholas ruminated bitterly. "Perfect."

"Yes, but how are we to stop her?" Angelique pressed desperately. "We have to get to her before she can meet Barnabas!"

"_We?" _Nicholas laughed. "My dear Angelique, there is no 'we' in this matter. Not anymore, not after what has happened here." Smiling, he removed one of his gloves. "No, I am no longer in need of your services."

Angelique stared at him wide-eyed, controlling the trembling that suddenly seized her body. "What…what do you mean? Of course you still need me! I'll…I'll help you find Victoria!"

Nicholas laughed derisively again. "Oh, my pet, I have no need of your assistance. I _am_ clever, you know. Obviously, Vulnavia has her. I find Vulnavia, I find the girl. And you certainly won't be able to find Vulnavia, given how weak your power is now. That is up to me alone." He had by now removed both his gloves and placed them in his hat, which he now laid neatly at his feet.

Angelique swallowed. "Nicholas…what are you going to do?"

He grinned. "Now, now, don't fret, Angelique. There may come a day in the future when I'll need your assistance again. Then I shall be more than happy to resurrect you once more. However, until that day comes…." His eyes narrowed in on her, raising his arms as she had done when summoning fire for Victoria.

Angelique shook her head, numb with dread. "No…no, no! Nicholas, don't!"

"Good_bye, _Angelique!" All at once the fire shot from his fingertips and enveloped Angelique's form, and her heart-stopping cry was the last thing he heard before her body burst into oblivion.

As the smoke cleared, Nicholas brushed off his sleeve with his pocket-handkerchief, sniffing disdainfully at the slight covering of soot that blanketed his arm. Then fastidiously picking up his walking stick and hat, he once more put on his gloves and situated the trilby on his head.

Twirling his cane, he said aloud to no one in particular as he headed back toward the portal, "Well! Back to Collinsport, I suppose."

* * *

On a cool, quiet winter evening in 1948, a woman stepped out of the shadows in front of the Hammond Foundling Home in New York City. She was dressed in a long, dated-looking cloak whose hood hid her features. She carried some sort of indiscernible parcel in her arms.

With nimble, sure steps the figure tripped up to the building's door. She knelt down and placed her package, a cardboard box, on the doorstep. She glanced into the open box, placing tender fingers inside.

The baby was asleep, huddled in an ordinary little blanket atop some common newspapers.

For Victoria to be fully protected, Vulnavia knew no one must suspect magic was involved.

Yet if something happened to herself, Phibes must have some clue to trace him to his lost wife.

And that was why, on a note pinned inside the box, Vulnavia had written but ten words:

_"Her name is Victoria. I cannot take care of her."_

The baby stirred in her sleep, whimpering. Smiling sadly, Vulnavia stroked her soft cheek, then leaned down and kissed her, briefly. She then stood, knocked sharply on the door, and vanished once more into thin air.

TO BE CONTINUED

* * *

…**.Maybe. Maybe not. The more I think about it, this might just do for a spooky little oneshot. I don't know. I'll have to think about it. Opinions?**

**Either way, hope you enjoyed! Let me know if you have any questions, or if you're confused by anything. Or if you're a devoted fan of either DS or Phibes and you noticed I got a fact or detail wrong, lemme know! I'll appreciate any guidance! Thank you for reading.**


	2. Chapter 2

Elizabeth Collins Stoddard stared at her fireplace, eyes stinging from the flames. Her eyes were glued there, unblinking and wide. She held a glass of brandy securely in her clasped hands, but so dull and deep was her shock that the glass stayed still and full in her grasp.

She had killed her husband.

She had killed Paul.

She had killed her husband.

No. No. The words still did not fully penetrate, did not make _sense. _For the first time in over an hour, after Jason McGuire had left her sitting by the fireplace speaking honeyed, strychnine-laced words of comfort till the moment he left the house, Elizabeth's expression finally shifted from its pale, blank mask of stoicism. Her brow furrowed as her eyes narrowed in on the flames, as if she were trying to decode a message hidden in the embers. Her mouth parted in rhythmic, up-and-down motion, and it would take keener ears than human to hear what she whispered: "How…how…_how?"_

How could this have happened? How? How…she…she didn't mean to kill him! Only stop him…yes…stop him from hurting her…no, no...she wasn't important anymore, really, really, it wasn't about her…she had to stop him from hurting _Carolyn._

Oh, God, Carolyn!

Jerking away from the fire, Elizabeth groaned, squeezing the glass of brandy so tightly her fingernails left marks. Yes, her poor sweet Carolyn! That…that was the only reason why…he was taking the jewels, the money, everything, everything! Everything that never mattered to her but mattered so much for Carolyn's future! When she realized he was going to walk off with it, all of Carolyn's inheritance, with that damn, cocky smirk on his blasted face, and lead a life of luxury he was denying their girl, well…well, the poker was in her hand and it came down…down…no, _no, _she didn't mean it, she _didn't…!_

She was sobbing now. She, Elizabeth _Collins _Stoddard, the proud beauty with brains and strength to match her famed loveliness, was reduced to this doddering shell of a woman, sobbing over her murder victim; too weak even to down the brandy in her hands. She, Elizabeth, so defiant of her parents as to marry that dashing renegade Paul Stoddard, was now at the mercy of that Irish _yokel, _that Jason McGuire! She grimaced with self-loathing. Oh, yes, Jason had taken care of everything so _beautifully, _removed Paul's body to the basement with nary a sound to upset Carolyn in her crib or any of the servants, and had been solicitous and considerate to the very end, while letting her know in no uncertain terms that her life was now his, her money and house his for the taking.

The same house, she promised herself steadfastly even in her torrent of tears, that she would never, ever leave again. Not while she lived to see her Carolyn's sweet face go white with horror discovering the terrible secret buried in the basement, if Elizabeth should ever be foolish enough to let her guard down and abandon Collinwood for even a moment.

Elizabeth shuddered convulsively, not only contemplating that horrible possibility, but the thought of Paul's body…buried there. That awful image had until then mercifully not rose before her weary mind. But now it came upon her in full force. Her husband…her Paul…no, not her Paul really, never was, never was…Paul was dead and buried in this cursed house.

Because of her. Because of her.

Elizabeth knew she was no perfect saint, and had done and said many things she regretted bitterly, bitterly. But she abhorred murder, even when it came down upon someone as loathsome as Paul.

And yet, she had killed him.

She…she hadn't had any right to do that.

After all, maybe…maybe while he was alive…maybe there was a _chance _he could change, a _chance _he could redeem himself. Who knows, maybe as the years went by, and Paul learned that all the money and jewels he pilfered could never substitute family, maybe then he could have learned to love, if not her, Carolyn.

Then her baby would have had a real father, instead of the corpse her mother had just now damned. And Paul…she had denied him any chance to make up his mistakes to his daughter, if he would ever have wished to.

Elizabeth was keening now, practically rocking back and forth on the sofa. "Oh, God, Paul!" She choked out through her sobs. "Forgive me! I'll do anything! _Anything _to make this up to you! Oh, God, I'm sorry…." She gave herself over to her tears, collapsing on her side against the cushions, the brandy falling to the floor.

She started suddenly, bolting up ramrod straight at the edge of the couch.

There was a sharp, heavy, and persistent rap on the door.

Her heart pounded mercilessly.

She glanced hazily at the clock. Who…who on _earth _could be calling at this time of night?

Whoever it was knocked again.

Elizabeth swallowed and stood unsteadily. With trembling hands she wiped the tears off her face, regretting she could do nothing about her red eyes and smeared mascara.

She took a deep breath, shaking all the while, hugging her elegant dressing gown closer to her as she made her way to the door. She thought how it was a sad state of affairs indeed when she started hoping that it was Jason McGuire at the door, returning with simply another snaky favor to ask–no, demand of her.

As she opened the door, she couldn't keep herself from the morbid thought whisking through her: _Dear God don't let it be a ghost!_

A beautiful woman stared at her from the archway.

She stepped out of the moonlight and into the house, moving airily, silently, and with authority, sweeping inscrutable eyes over Collinwood's entryway. Her ratty coat was torn in areas, but this pathetic attire was totally incongruous to the rest of her. This was no sad waif, but a majestic, proud figure, her bright eyes staring at Elizabeth archly with head held high. Wisps of fine dark hair spilled out of the hood that she pulled down as she began to speak.

"Is Paul here?"

Elizabeth inhaled sharply. "What…who are you? What are you doing in my house at this time of night?"

The woman stepped nearer her, and there was something unearthly about this woman's mild gaze. "I'm asking, is Paul here?"

Indignation like red-hot iron seared through Elizabeth's core, and releasing the tension she had been brewing, she spat out, "What are you, another one of his whores? Come to flaunt yourself in front of me, trying to shame me, to get back at him? Ha! As if you could. Go on, get out! My esteemed husband is gone…is not here! Left! Get out, you slut!" She flung open the door, fuming. "Out, I say!"

The tense silence was punctuated only by Elizabeth's exasperated heavy breathing, coming out in huffs from flared nostrils, her lips compressed too tightly for any air to escape them.

But then she frowned. She watched mystified as the beautiful woman's proud lip suddenly started to tremble, the girl turning her head away slowly. So quiet was she that it took Elizabeth a moment to realize that the woman's jerking shoulders signified that she was crying.

And Elizabeth was, at her core, a very kind woman.

She unwillingly stepped forward, close to the exquisite weeping creature. "I…I'm sorry…are you ill?"

"Yes," came the soft reply.

Elizabeth bowed her head. "I'm sorry I spoke to you that way…but I'm not myself this evening…here, come into the sitting room, I don't want you waking anyone."

Taking one slender arm, Elizabeth helped the stranger into the drawing room, seating her on the sofa. "You see," Elizabeth continued, closing the drawing room doors, "Paul did leave. This very night." She turned her head away so the girl couldn't see Elizabeth's face twist, having just told her very first lie concerning Paul's whereabouts.

She turned back quickly as a strangled cry escaped the woman. "No!…No!…oh, then there is no hope! None!" The woman buried her face in her hands.

Elizabeth rushed forward. "No hope? No hope for what? Who are you, miss?"

The woman's dignified eyes were now desperate and appealing. "Oh, Mrs. Stoddard, I am everything you accused me of! I'm…I'm a despicable tramp…you see, Mrs. Stoddard…I…I made the dreadful mistake of falling in love with your husband. My name is Betty Handscombe. I used to model for Sam Evans, and that's where I met Paul. We used to meet secretly, until…until…." She was overtaken by a fresh burst of tears, and covered her face again.

Elizabeth only rolled her eyes. "Well, I'm not surprised. Paul did–does have his ways." She sighed. "What is it you want from me, Ms. Handscombe? Money? I really don't have time for this right now." She put a hand to her forehead, closing her eyes as she massaged a growing headache. The woman's sniffing was becoming monotonous.

"None…no money for me, you see…oh, Mrs. Stoddard, how _can _I tell you? I…I didn't expect Paul to be gone! Believe me, the scales had long ago fallen from my eyes concerning him; I know he's no good. But still…I thought…for his child…."

Elizabeth's eyes snapped open, and there was fire in them. "Don't you dare mention Carolyn to me, do you hear?"

Betty shook her head quickly. "Oh no, oh no! I didn't mean _her_! I –oh!" She covered her mouth and stared at Elizabeth wide-eyed. "Oh dear, oh dear…." She said to herself in a far away voice. She stood, looking away abashedly as Elizabeth scrutinized her. "I should go."

She lurched forward, head down, but Elizabeth caught her arm and stopped her. In a low voice Elizabeth asked, "What do you mean, you weren't talking about Carolyn?"

Betty turned around to face her, biting her lip. She trembled as she stared at Collinwood's matriarch. After several moments she answered. "You see, Mrs. Stoddard…I…I had his child, too."

Elizabeth felt faint, the room spinning, its empty luxury mocking her. Betty busied herself sitting Elizabeth down, and replaced the spilled glass of brandy into pale hands. Betty knelt at Elizabeth's feet. "Oh dear, Mrs. Stoddard! Believe me, I didn't want to trouble _you _with this! Oh, I'm so clumsy. But…but you're a mother! You understand, don't you?" She gave Elizabeth a small, sad, broken smile. In a terribly soft voice, she said, "My baby is a little girl, too, you know. My little Victoria." Her eyes went misty. "My sweet…little…oh, Victoria!" She broke down sobbing again. She threw her face into Elizabeth's lap, clutching the lady's skirts. Through the thick fog swimming around her, Elizabeth only vaguely felt the the pressure of Betty's bawling head.

"What do you want from me?" Elizabeth asked again, in a voice devoid of any feeling.

She strained to hear the girl's words, muffled as they were in the folds of Elizabeth's gown. "Nothing for me, ma'am, never anything for me. I don't deserve it. I wanted to talk to Paul. You see, I had to give her up. My girl. My Victoria. Had to drop her off at the Hammond Foundling Home in New York City. My parents wouldn't take us in. Called me worse names than you did. And I've no way to support her! None!" She lifted her head, her pretty eyes glazed over with tears and sorrow. "Oh, ma'am, if you only knew of the pain and shame I feel! I used to be good, I swear it! But I was so ashamed I couldn't even leave Victoria my name, or where to find me! I don't want her to! Don't want her to know her mother's a…a…." Her lips quivered and Elizabeth instinctively said, "Shh…shh…don't worry, don't think of yourself that way."

Betty graced her with another crooked, appealing smile. "Oh, you are kind, Mrs. Stoddard. Kinder than someone like me deserves, that's for sure." She humbly accepted the handkerchief Elizabeth offered her, and gracefully blew her nose. "So you see, ma'am, I've got nothing to give my little girl. Nothing. Now that Paul is gone…I thought maybe he could have done something for her, sent her money, anything! Who knows what sort of life the poor little babe will lead there! Who knows! And now not only will she never know me, she'll never know her father, either!"

As she broke down anew, the last words she spoke rang a bell in Elizabeth's memory.

What…what had she been thinking of before Betty came in? Carolyn. Carolyn would never know her father, either.

She…Elizabeth…she had denied two girls their father this evening.

And she had wanted so desperately to make things up to Paul somehow, dead as he is now.

Elizabeth took a deep breath.

With slow resolve, she lifted Betty's chin so that their eyes could meet. Elizabeth's voice, while detached and firm, held a note of defiant, motherly warmth. "Betty, listen to me. You needn't worry for your daughter. I…I can't do anything right now because they might be able to trace the money back to me and I don't want a scandal right after Paul–leaving. I have to think of my daughter too, you know. But…in a couple of years, say…I will start providing for your daughter."

Betty's eyes widened with wonder. "Provide for her? How?" She breathed.

Elizabeth thought a moment. "I can't send her money directly, because they'd still be able to trace it back to me. I'll talk to a lawyer in Bangor, and we can wire her money from there. Her name's Victoria, do you say? And what was the name of that foundling home?"

She wrote down the name as Betty numbly repeated it. Betty then shook her head in awe. "You…you'd really do all this just for me?"

"No," Elizabeth said bluntly. "Not for you. For your child. And I'm going to run a background check and make sure this place does in fact exist, and that your child really is there. Is that clear?"

Betty nodded her head quickly. Then her eyes became dewy once more as she clutched Elizabeth's hands. "Oh, Mrs. Stoddard, you are an angel. An angel."

Elizabeth shook her head, throwing off Betty's grasping hands. "No. I'm not. I'm just a mother, like you."

"Yes, like me," Betty beamed, hero worship evident in her face as she gazed at the woman before her. Then to Elizabeth's chagrin Betty clutched her hands again. "And because you're a mother, Mrs. Stoddard, promise me one thing more!"

"What is it?"

"I meant it when I said I didn't want Victoria knowing where she came from…won't you please promise that she'll never learn? Never?"

Elizabeth's face softened, relenting. "Yes, I promise. She'll never learn the truth from me. And…and I'll do my best to keep an eye on her. Who knows, someday I may need a companion, and then…."  
Betty's eyes lit up ecstatically. "Oh, Mrs. Stoddard! That would be wonderful! I'd like my Victoria to see such a great house. I'm sure where she's living now, she'll appreciate seeing something so grand and fine when she gets older." With eyes full of gratitude and admiration she impulsively grabbed Elizabeth by the shoulders and planted a hasty kiss on her cheek. Then she sped away to the door, but halted and turned around at the archway. In a remarkably clear and steady voice, echoing her strong attitude when she first came in, she announced, "Elizabeth Stoddard, you shall never lay eyes on Betty Handscombe again."

She fled into the night. Behind her she left a woman destined to a reclusive existence for the next twenty-three years, with only the memory of this the most tumultuous night of her life.

Elizabeth glanced down at the slip of paper in her hand, at the notes she had scribbled as Betty talked.

_Hammond Foundling Home, New York City._

_The girl's name is Victoria._

_

* * *

_

Vulnavia pulled her hood up as she walked away from Collinwood toward the cliff at Widow's Hill. She didn't want the drunken Evans or any of the townsfolk to see her, though the risk of recognition was low this time of night.

All that mattered now was that she had made Victoria's life more secure for the time being.

Perhaps this deed would make up in some small way for the fact that Vulnavia felt she was betraying Anton.

For shortly after she had left Victoria on Hammond's steps, the full force of a prophecy had called her back:

_Victoria Phibes shall bathe in the River of Life and be resurrected, and will one day win the heart of Barnabas Collins, replacing Josette DuPres Collins in his affections._

Such were the strange machinations of time, which the gods and sorcerers played with so thoughtlessly, that Vulnavia only had the prophecy _after_ Victoria's rebirth, and Nicholas subsequently had to sift through the years to awaken Angelique and notify her of what the prophecy foretold.

Of course, Nicholas had neglected to tell Angelique the prophecy's message in full: that because of Barnabas's great love of Victoria, the young mortal would be the turning point of a great decision Barnabas would have to make. A decision that would result either in chaos and destruction on the side of Diablos, or else a decision that benefited the gods of Vulnavia's clan, who–despite their sometimes violent and sadistic nature–were crucial in keeping the balance to mortal life.

Thus, Vulnavia knew she must see this prophecy through, and ensure that the correct outcome was reached.

But that did not mean the wife of her esteemed nephew should live in squalor.

Therefore, Vulnavia had insinuated herself into Collinsport life, adopting the identity Betty Handscombe, wooing Paul and leading the life of a commoner. Thankfully, Elizabeth would never deign to inquire of anyone just how long "Betty" had really been in town, and therefore the mistress of Collinwood would never discover that Betty had not been around nearly long enough to give birth to Victoria in the time she indicated.

Vulnavia, though usually above such petty human emotions, felt a stab of guilt in taking advantage of the bamboozled Elizabeth Stoddard. Vulnavia's insight revealed that the goddess was the third person to fool the poor woman tonight, and that Paul Stoddard did indeed still walk the earth.

But this same insight revealed that in this vulnerable state Elizabeth was perfect to provide and care for Victoria, and draw her near when the time came for Barnabas to awaken.

Therefore, Vulnavia's sympathy for Elizabeth was but a fleeting whim. After all, she was not to blame for a human woman not knowing enough to avoid entrapment from two scheming men and from her. The Stoddard woman should be stronger, wiser.

Vulnavia reached the cliff at Widow's Hill. The wind blew out from the sea and whipped her face as she stepped off the cliff and let the wind cascade around her, making her transparent as she faded into the Other World.


	3. Chapter 3

_22 Years later..._

Willie Loomis paced back and forth outside Barnabas Collins's coffin, anxiously rubbing the back of his neck. His thoughts were disjointed and skittish. _Oh, jeez. Oh, jeez. What…what are we gonna do now? He knows. He knows. He knows everything. Barnabas will kill him for sure this time!_

_What…what time is it?_

He reasoned that since it was now nearing December, he could head down to the basement about quarter to five and still just beat Barnabas to awakening. Collinsport this time of year grew dark quickly, blackness and mist usually masking whatever sunlight remained in the evening.

Willie had spent the last five minutes trying to work out what he wanted to say to the vampire, without even bothering to remove his work apron or to wipe the dust from his calloused hands.

He had been polishing down the tables when the note arrived.

Willie had gone cold upon reading it, and using all the intelligence his harried mind could muster in that moment concluded whom it must be from.

"Oh, jeez. Oh, jeez," he repeated aloud in the basement, shaking his head, hand on hip.

For going on three months now, Willie had but one purpose in mind to make his life _mean_ something, beyond existing solely as Barnabas's lackey: protecting Vicki Winters. This one preoccupation had brought him all the misery and anxiety in the world, almost more than what he had felt for poor Maggie Evans during her confinement in the Old House.

See…see, Maggie…she, she was nice in her own right, and pretty as hell; Willie had certainly wanted a piece of that when he first cruised into town on Jason's coattails. But for all that, Maggie knew who she was and whom she wanted, and that's why Barnabas could never really get her to be Josette. And as much as Willie respected her for her confidence and courage, he knew his job protecting her was done the minute she returned to Collinsport, remembering who she was without recalling the events of her disappearance. She was Maggie Evans again, plucky waitress and loyal daughter and girlfriend.

Vicki, though….

Willie could tell that Vicki wasn't the same sort of person as Maggie. Oh, it wasn't that she was weak or nuthin' like that…hell, the girl survived living in a foundling home in New York, that's proof of mettle enough! But listening to her talk about Josette and the past, Willie could tell she wasn't so sure about who she was like Maggie, or that she was as content to accept the present as it was. Plus the girl just, well...she just sorta had a strange kinda presence…like she didn't really belong here, like she was kinda unearthly.

Sorta like a fairytale.

And that made her perfect fodder for Barnabas.

Willie swallowed. Yeah, Barnabas. He…he had it pretty bad for Vicki. For _Vicki: _not some Josette double.

And that was the lifeline Willie clung to, the way he tried to get to Barnabas. If Barnabas really loved Vicki (Willie tried reasoning with him), he shouldn't wanna harm her.

He should just let her go.

The eerie moan of creaking wood made Willie start, and he gulped unsteadily as the coffin lid eased open.

Barnabas rose from his coffin, as austere and stark as the antique, wolf-headed cane he held even in sleep. His back was to Willie, but he knew his henchman was there just from the slight shuffling of Willie's feet.

"Good evening, Willie," he intoned carelessly in his icily elegant voice, as he smoothed a crease in his sleeve. "What do you want?"

Willie rushed forward, eyes wide with urgency. "Barnabas, I gotta talk to you."

Barnabas raised his eyebrows lazily, re-buttoning a cufflink. "Oh, what a shame, Willie. I've a very important engagement tonight and I do not wish to be delayed."

Willie looked him over quickly, immediately on guard. "Oh, yeah?"

Dark silver eyes suddenly locked with Willie's, signaling that the younger man's curiosity should stay checked. "Yes."

Willie resolutely ignored the silent warning. "Where?"  
"At Collinwood." A slow smile stretched Barnabas's thin lips, those penetrating eyes gleaming with languorous enjoyment, anticipating his servant's discomfort at his next comment. "Miss Winters expects me to go over a chapter from the history book I recently lent her."

Willie stiffened, mouth tightening. "I wish you'd leave her alone."

Barnabas's eyes again narrowed in sharply on Willie, the gleam in his pupils more dangerous now. His fingers tightened around his cane. "I know very well what you wish concerning her, Willie. And _I _wish you'd remember what I once told you: that the difference between you and Miss Winters is a gap as wide as the sky." Moving toward the basement's stairway, he continued, "Now if that's all, Willie, I do not wish to keep Miss Winters waiting…."

Remembering the danger at hand, Willie sprang forward. "No, that's not all! I got somethin' I got to tell you!"

Exasperated, Barnabas turned around. "Well, what is it? Either tell me or leave me be! Miss Winters is expecting me –"

"It's _about_ Vicki!"

"More talk about how I should avoid her?"

"No! Well…yes. But it ain't _my _talk!"

Barnabas cocked another eyebrow. "Dr. Hoffman's, then? She is quickly becoming as much of a nuisance on the topic of Vicki as you, Willie."

Willie shook his head, serious. "No, it ain't her. Barnabas, I think Burke Devlin may still be alive."

He had Barnabas's attention now.

Willie gasped in shock as Barnabas reflexively grabbed him by the throat, staring him down with more fire than ever in his frenzied eyes. "What do you _mean_, Burke Devlin's still alive," he growled, spitting out Burke's name as one would a violent profanity. "Has there been word? How, how can he still live?"

Willie shook in Barnabas's grasp, choking words out through the minimal air Barnabas allowed him. "A-a-at least, that's the only thing I can think of right now! It's the only thing that explains it!"

"Explains _what?"_ Barnabas stamped his foot in angry impatience, making Willie whimper as his fingers closed in more tightly around his slave's windpipe.

Willie tremulously removed one of his hands from where it desperately gripped Barnabas's. He reached into his apron pocket, pulling out a folded note. "B-b-because of this. Somebody knocked on the door earlier, but when I answered this slip of paper is all I saw, left on the porch!" He held it out weakly to Barnabas, a mute appeal to let him go.

Barnabas relented, abruptly releasing Willie from his hold. As the latter gasped for breath, Barnabas unfolded the letter and his frown deepened as he read the message written out in an elegant, strong calligraphy:

_You will cease your attentions to my Victoria, vampire. Either abandon your schemes now or face your doom!_

Willie cautiously watched Barnabas's dark countenance as he scrutinized the brusque note. "Barnabas?" He tentatively asked. "What do you think?

"I think you're a fool for believing a common, coarse brute like Burke Devlin could write so neatly, and employ such melodramatic prose," Barnabas replied harshly, refolding the note with quick, agitated fingers.

Brooding, he marched up the steps, Willie at his heels. "Gee, I hadn't thought of that, Barnabas. But…but…."

Barnabas lost patience again. "But _what, _Willie? Are you still in doubt? Burke Devlin is _dead._"

Willie stopped him at the landing, a light hand on Barnabas's elbow. "But Barnabas…if that note ain't from Burke Devlin…who's it from?"

The vampire stared pensively ahead of him, Willie's question echoing in his mind.

Yes, _who?_

_

* * *

_

Victoria Winters felt for the couch in Collinwood's drawing room and seated herself before the fireplace, eyes glued to her open book. It was early evening, and the Collins household had finished dining and had dispersed to their various activities: Roger and Elizabeth to the cannery to go over accounts, Carolyn to The Blue Whale, Dr. Hoffman to her journal in her bedroom, and David to the kitchen, pestering Mrs. Johnson.

Vicki was in a meditative mood for some reason tonight, and that combined with feeling it was still too soon since Burke's death to partake in any of Collinsport's night-life, politely declined Carolyn's invitation to join her at the pub. Ordinarily Carolyn would have teased Vicki for a wet blanket or a schoolmarm, but the sensitive blonde knew that now was not the time to press Vicki to socialize.

Therefore, Vicki was left alone with her thoughts and her book.

She allowed the warmth from the crackling logs to lull her as she leisurely perused the chapter on 16th Century poetry she wanted to discuss with Barnabas.

She found many of the verses more direct and vibrant than she expected, pulsing with emotions people nowadays tended to avoid expressing either artistically or in real life, maybe for fear of coming across as maudlin or histrionic.

Who knows, maybe these days such sentiments _would _come across that way. And as Vicki's eyes scanned the pages, she couldn't help but concede that the odd mix of frankness, sincerity, and beauty in these lines captured perfectly the simpler but Gothic times they were written in.

She was eager to find out if Barnabas agreed. She ruefully chided herself, knowing that she really had no pressing questions for Barnabas except a yearning for confirmation of her own thoughts and feelings regarding the material. She hoped she wasn't wasting Barnabas's time, since Julia kept dropping hints about how busy he was.

Still, he was always quick to assure Vicki that he always had time for _her –_that is, for her queries about the past.

As always when confronted with the past, the young governess could not remain objective and she soon became immersed in what she was reading. The world seemed to melt into a warm blur as the words of John Donne–her personal favorite of the poets in the chapter–leapt at her from the musty pages.

_Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone; _

_Let maps to other, worlds on worlds have shown; _

_Let us possess one world; each hath one, and is one…._

Vicki was so lost in Donne's lines that she did not realize she had started reading aloud in hushed, almost mesmerized tones. Her eyes were glassy and focused, and therefore took no notice of a dark shape watching her from the shadows outside the window….

The spectator stared at her wildly and devoutly from the great Oak Tree he stood beneath, whose branches scraped the house's awnings. He noticed neither the crisp evening breeze nor the faint whine of howling dogs rising in the distance.

All he saw was the grave, pale face of Victoria Winters.

All he heard was her artless voice, the words muffled by the glass separating them but still discernible to his fine-tuned ears.

In smooth accents, he completed the rest of the poem with her, their voices blending together without her knowledge.

_My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears,_

_And true plain hearts do in the faces rest;_

_Where can we find two better hemispheres,_

_Without sharp North, without declining West?_

_Whatever dies was not mixed equally;_

_If our two loves be one, or thou and I_

_Love so alike that none do slacken, _

_NONE CAN DIE._

His gloved hand rested on the window before him, lightly brushing over the image of her bent head.

"Victoria," the thin, harsh voice whispered reverently.

Phibes suddenly shut tight his fevered blue eyes, overcome by the sight of her, the nearness of her, alive, alive, at last alive.

His enchantment was so great his heart swelled, and the tremor that swept through his body had nothing to do with Collinsport's autumn winds.

"Victoria…."

He heard her gasp in alarm, and he opened his eyes and smiled slyly at what he saw: Vicki stared wide-eyed at the note he had hidden for her in the volume, the note which had fallen into her lap as she turned the page from Donne's poem.

Vicki was dumbfounded as she read the message:

_Happy birthday, my beloved Victoria._

* * *

**Sorry for the brevity of this chapter, but my head's a'clankin' with so many ideas I couldn't fit 'em all into one chapter right away. Plus, school's kind of cramping my style, consarnit (yes, my writing has suddenly switched from soap opera mode to grizzled mountain prospector mode, what of it?). The poem Vicki and Phibes recites is Donne's _The Good Morrow, _which Phibes fans may recognize from the first movie.**

**Remember my note in the first chapter where I was all, "there will be hints throughout of unexpected pairings"? Yeah, that's why I'm going more with Willie/Vicki than the popular Willie/Maggie slant. I'm doing this for a variety of reasons. First of all, I almost never dig the popular pairings. I'm just aggravating that way. Second, I have other plans for Miss Maggie that includes another questionable romantic entanglement–though in this case, probably not as surprising to readers. Thirdly, I feel this pairing's legitimate because there were hints in certain episodes that they were planning to go the route of Willie being sort of sweet on Vicki; i.e., the episode I alluded to above where Barnabas warns him not to even think about her because Barnabas thinks Willie's not good enough for her (I think they dropped it once Alexandra Moltke started expressing dissatisfaction with her character and they knew they were probably going to lose Vicki). And the final and most shallow reason is that Willie and Vicki are my favorite characters, so I want at least one of them to pine for the other. Just my personal whim, and I'm sorry if you don't like it. I know what it's like when some author waltzes in and messes with established couples–I too get very protective of my favorite fandom relationships. Though like I said, mine are often unpopular to begin with. But please bear with me, and I'll do my best not to make my pairings squicky for the squeamish reader!**

**Thanks for reading, and a special thanks to those who have taken time to review this madness. You're much, much appreciated!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Sorry for the delay! I've been unexpectedly busy as of late! Unfortunately, future chapters will also probably be infrequently updated, but I'll try my hardest to get them up whenever I get a chance. As way of apology, I've added more info on Phibes' background in this chapter, along with a few more references to _Dr. Phibes Rises Again. _**

**_

* * *

_**

Phibes' journey to Collinwood had been a long one.

First there had been his voluntary expulsion from paradise. He had found no joy there, no serenity. True, the magnificent palace of his ancestors—home to the Gods of Egypt—had been more than any mortal could ever dare to glimpse. The columns were made of unearthly crystal, more luminescent and unyielding than diamonds, stretching for miles into the flame-colored skies. At the threshold of the great archway stood his mother, the goddess Io, posed to greet her son. She was quite similar in looks to her sister Vulnavia, her dark beauty matched well with her flowing amber gown, its skirt spilling like a halo around her feet.

Phibes had never met her in the flesh before. His father, an explorer and scientist, was the only one who had told him of her, teaching his son the ways of voodoo and the occult, tools necessary to communicating with the gods. Years before, the explorer had employed such ingenious methods when he delved beneath Egypt's surface in search of the River of Life. He was hired help, assisting the mysterious adventurer Biederbeck in the man's quest to find the River's entrance. Biederbeck, having drunk from those waters generations before, had outlived his original team of explorers and hired Phibes Sr. after hearing wonders about the man's vast knowledge of archeology and the occult. It was while perusing an ancient book of Egyptian spells, found in the ruins beneath the pyramids mere miles away from the River's gates, that the elder Phibes unknowingly summoned Io to him from the book's sacred pages. The goddess had only to stare into the shocking blue eyes of Pyotr Phibes for the two to fall madly, irretrievably in love with one another.

Unfortunately, Pyotr had displeased the other gods with his hubris: how _dare _a full-blooded mortal attempt crossing the River of Life? Never mind that Biederbeck was the real force behind the visit, determined to quench his thirst at the waters once more, greedy despite the wealthy amount of water left in his vial. This time the gods had been more watchful, and, save for Io, were determined to stop the duo before they reached the immortal waters.

But not before Io gave birth to Anton.

She had been forced to relinquish her son to the boy's father. "No, my child," her father, the King of the Gods, had told her as she desperately clutched her babe to her. "Tainted as he is by mortal blood, he must _earn _his way here, as his father did…then we shall accept him for the godly blood his father lacks."

And so she had been forced to watch her lover and her child go. The only way she could stay close to either of them was assigning Vulnavia as the young boy's guardian. As the last-born in the Egyptian line of gods, Vulnavia was appointed their messenger, able to walk just as easily among the mortals as in the clouds of her home world. Thus she was the best candidate to look after her beloved sister's son.

So Vulnavia, along with Anton's father, instructed the talented young lad in the ways of immortality, the dark arts, and even alchemy. Vulnavia's warrior blood, passed down from generations of war gods before her, helped influence the ruthlessness that developed in Anton's character, coloring his perception that humanity was nothing compared to the grander schemes that lay ahead.

His mastery of music and science came from his own insatiable desire to learn.

Soon Vulnavia and his dying father decided that Anton had learned enough, and was now so powerful in his understanding of science both real and unearthly, that seeking the holy waters beneath the pyramids would be a relatively simple task for the renowned organist.

But before Anton could decide for himself whether or not he wanted to enter the world of the gods, he had fallen in love with Victoria.

He was content to live out the rest of his life as her mortal servant, if need be. As long as she was by his side, he desired no other life.

But with her death came a renewed fascination with what immortality could offer them both. Digging up the ancient book his late father had brought home with him, Anton now called upon Vulnavia not as his guardian, but as his _familiar_—unquestioningly assisting him in his grisly means of revenge and resurrection.

All this his wise mother knew as she awaited her son and daughter-in-law's entrance into her home world.

He stood in front of his mother wide-eyed and haggard, holding not his wife's hand in triumphant adulation, but instead the sopping remains of her dressing gown.

The exultant look in his mother's proud black eyes faded into understanding sadness.

In the short time he spent in the palace of the gods, Anton forged an unbreakable bond with his mother, based mostly on their shared experience in heartbreak, in losing their respective beloveds.

After a fortnight, judging by godly time (more than twenty years judging by Earth time), Io placed loving hands on his shoulders, and declared, "My son, until you find Victoria, you will never know peace here. Your father…." She shut her eyes suddenly, pausing for a moment to brace herself against the pain contemplating him brought. "Your father faded into the ether before I could bring him here after he died. Only when the tides are just right, and the moon is half full, am I allowed to visit him amongst the stars. So I know the deadly pain of separation. Go, Anton! Find your Victoria! Vulnavia shall direct you to the Oracle, where you can gaze into time itself, and see for yourself how your beloved is faring. Farewell until you find her again."

Embracing his glorious mother one last time, Anton obeyed. His dear Vulnavia, strangely distant in her manner, but forever acquiescent, led him to the Oracle's orb. The mystic orb was what many ignorant earthlings would have called a large crystal ball. It served as a window into time, revealing worldly events and mortal thoughts and dreams.

Anton glanced down into fog.

There, through the mist, came the image of a train….

Then the words, in that ecstatically familiar voice, only now neutral in its once upper-crust British accent: "My name is Victoria Winters…."

* * *

_Burke Devlin!_

Phibes' mind hissed this name repeatedly as he watched Victoria's experiences in Collinwood. Always, _always_ that dreaded Devlin interfered with her life, steering her dear heart away from patiently awaiting him!

This would _not _do. Neither could that vampire's burgeoning affection for her be borne.

Phibes knew he must return to mortal life quickly.

With Vulnavia again at his side, Phibes planned his next devious crime—but no, it wasn't a crime, for again (as always!), it was for his Victoria's sake! Never mind that people insisted on calling her by that common sobriquet Vicki, or that she lived a completely different life now, and came from a different background, or that she remembered nothing of her life with him.

All that would soon change. She was still his Victoria.

After leaving the Oracle, he did not head directly to Collinwood. Instead he instructed Vulnavia to open a portal into Brazil.

For Phibes had witnessed Vicki's acceptance of Devlin's marriage proposal. Through the vision allowed him from the orb, Phibes saw everything: her dear wan face relenting delicately to that ape's pressuring words, and then the...

_That kiss!_

His fists clenched. He heard Devlin say he was going away to South America. Phibes' plan formulated quickly.

The Brazilian Wandering Spider is more popularly known as The Banana Spider for its ability to burrow away in that same fruit, oftentimes sneaking into the US in banana shipments. Its species, _P. nigriventer, _has the most venomous toxin of any spider.

How fortunate for Phibes that he arrived in Brazil during the dry season, when the spiders came out in droves to breed, making them susceptible to capture, particularly by hands as deft and careful as his.

And how fortunate that the man piloting Burke's plane out of Brazil chose that delicious, potassium-heavy fruit as his snack of choice in the cockpit.

Phibes and Vulnavia, dressed in the most chic of jungle-camp attire, waited leisurely in their camping spot, on an outer corner of the exotic rainforest. Phibes turned off his phonograph that was currently playing Brahms and placed a hand to his ear. A plane's engine was sounding overhead, passing them but coming closer and closer to the ground a good ways off. As he heard the plane's erratic swerving approach a cluster of trees miles away, Phibes lazily brought his binoculars to his eyes.

A cruelly satisfied smile curled his lips as he followed the plane's progress downward. Phibes poured Vulnavia another glass of champagne. "Well, my dear," the good doctor said in his smooth natural voice. "Shall we pay my Victoria a visit at Collinwood?"

* * *

And thus he stood beneath an old willow tree outside Collinwood's windows, watching his wife's perplexity mounting.

Vicki remained unaware of that silent observer, her husband. She stared down dumbly at the note in her hands as she paced wonderingly back and forth.

_"Happy birthday, my beloved Victoria."_

_What on Earth...?_

She jumped at the sound of someone knocking on the door outside. Shaking her head to clear her mind from her frightened meditations, she rushed to greet the visitor.

"Barnabas!"

The vampire, standing tall and cloaked in the doorway, furrowed his brow, his eyes quickly scanning her face, noting her distress. "Why, Vicki! You look white as a sheet, my dear! Whatever is the matter?" He solicitously took her by the arm and led her into the drawing room, unknowingly echoing Elizabeth's behavior to "Betty Handscombe" many years before.

Vicki halted at the couch, staring at him earnestly. "Barnabas, what does this mean?" She held up the note.

Barnabas inhaled sharply at the sight of that handwriting. _That mysterious note-writer again! _So unnerved was he that he missed what Vicki said next. "What was that, my dear?"

"Why did you put this here?"

Barnabas raised his eyebrows. "Me? Vicki, what makes you think I was the one who left that note for you?"

"Because...well, because you're the one who lent this book to me! No one else has opened it for years, you told me." She flipped open the book to the Donne poem. "It fell out of these pages while I was reading, see?"

Barnabas frowned, honestly confounded. "I'm afraid I have no idea how this message came to be. Perhaps...Vicki, are you _sure _no one else has been in contact with this book since I lent it to you?"

"No, no one! I've had it with me the whole time."

"Now, surely that can't be the case. I gave it to you last Wednesday. Am I to believe that in that time it has not left your sight once?"

Vicki bit her bottom lip, thinking. "Well...I had it in my room, of course. But I never noticed anything else disturbed, or...wait!" She straightened, remembering. "Earlier today I took David on a picnic near Widow's Hill. The weather had cleared, and I figured, why not? I had the book with me and read it while David explored in the woods. I did get up and leave it there when David wanted to show me an ant-hill...I wonder...it was only about five minutes I was gone..."

"More than enough time," Barnabas said quietly, touching lightly the slip of paper in her hands, "for someone to stick this note in-between the book's pages."

Vicki nodded slowly. "Yes...but that still doesn't answer _who_-"

The door slammed shut, jarring them. "Evening, all!" came Carolyn's bright voice, the blonde bouncing into the drawing room, removing her coat and scarf. Her mother and uncle were close behind her. "How're tricks?"

"Ah, Barnabas!" Roger called out. "Good of you to drop by. Drink?" The male head of the Collins family was already helping himself to the mini-bar.

"No, thank you, Roger. Elizabeth," Barnabas added, nodding politely to his cousin, who greeted him in kind.

"Roger and I picked Carolyn up at the Blue Whale after finishing up business at the Cannery. I'm still not comfortable with her walking home at night, regardless of how long it's been since the Evans girl was kidnapped."

"Well, if only _someone _would let me have a car of my own, we wouldn't have this problem, now would we?" Carolyn teased her mother, hugging her around the neck from where the family's matriarch sat in her armchair. Carolyn's flippant face soon took on a vaguely concerned look as she took in the puzzled and taciturn expressions Vicki and Barnabas wore. "Hey, why the long faces, you two? Vicki, you're not reading those tragic mystery novels again, are you?"

Vicki smiled weakly. "No, not exactly. But I have had a bit of a fright."

"Oh? Do tell," Roger said carelessly over the rim of his glass.

"It seems our dear Miss Winters is the victim of some odd practical joke," Barnabas spoke for her. "Though I certainly fail to see any humor in the situation."

"Really, Vicki? How do you mean?" Elizabeth asked.

Vicki showed them the note, and gave them a brief history of how she found it. "...And whoever placed it there _must _have been watching David and me the whole time. It's all so very strange." Her grave, pale gray eyes grew more and more troubled.

At this point in her narrative, the majority of the Collins family peeked over her shoulder to get a better look at the book and the brief note Vicki picked up again to scrutinize.

"'Happy birthday,'" Carolyn read aloud, musing. "What a funny thing to write. I mean, you don't _know _when your birthday is, do you, Vicki?"

"No, I don't," Vicki answered strongly in the negative. "But the orphanage said I was a newborn, left on the steps in mid-December. So I had to be born that month. But today is only November 27th!"

"How odd," Elizabeth said, as puzzled as anyone. Betty Handscombe's fateful visit had indeed occurred sometime late in December, and Elizabeth remembered having the strong impression that the young mother had only recently deposited Vicki at the orphanage steps when she came to Collinwood that night. The dates didn't match this sudden note.

Roger shrugged, though he was now genuinely interested after hearing the strange tale. "I guess we're all flummoxed! But by the tone of the note, Vicki, it sounds as if you have a secret admirer. Or should I say, 'beloved Victoria?'"

"Oh, Roger, don't tease her. Not at a time like this."

"I'm not teasing, Liz. Only stating the facts. Let's play Sherlock Holmes, shall we?" He held up his fingers. "One: someone was waiting for Vicki to leave the book alone so he could place the note inside. Two: the person thinks—or at least wants Vicki to think—that he or she knows when Vicki's birthday is. Three: this person, crazy or not, is affecting some sort of fondness for Collinsport's favorite governess. Well, anyone want to play Watson and come up with some hackneyed theory for Holmes to shoot down?"

The four figures he consulted lacked his convivial attitude, and Barnabas was valiantly keeping his mouth shut about asking who these Holmes and Watson characters were.

Finally Vicki shook her head again, sighing. "None of it makes any sense. And who knows if it ever will!"

"_Perhaps I can shed some light on the situation." _All members of the household jumped at these words. Phibes, from his hideout behind the tree, gasped aloud, recognizing the speaker:

Nicholas Blair.

The warlock stood in the drawing room's entry way. His coat was folded over his arm, and the hand holding his hat was hovering close to his head, posed in polite hesitation. His smile was vibrant and thin. "I do apologize for barging in like this, but I noticed the door open a crack, and I felt awkward interrupting such an intense conversation."

"And just who _are _you?" Roger demanded sharply.

Nicholas entered the room, smile still plastered on his face. "Nicholas Blair, a pleasure to meet you all." He turned to Vicki. "I do apologize for alarming you with this little bit of paper. It was only a mere whim of mine to approach you like this."

Vicki drew back in surprise, as Phibes fumed that Blair dare claim Phibes' work as his own. Vicki swallowed. "_You _wrote me this letter?"

"That's right."

"Why?"

"Because," Nicholas's small, even teeth were very white against his tan face and dark mustache. "I, dear girl, am your uncle."

* * *

**Oh, that wacky Nicholas. What mischief will this rascally scamp get the gang into next? I'd like to thank Wikipedia for teaching me all about the wonder that is the Brazilian Wandering Spider. I guess there's some controversy to how venomous this particular arachnid actually is, but darn it, it fits the Brazilian-Burke storyline the best so I'm keeping it in. **

**Happy holidays, everyone!  
**


	5. Chapter 5

The note fluttered to the floor from Vicki's hand.

The girl swallowed, wide-eyed and frozen. "My…my _uncle?"_

Nicholas bowed his head, rakish smile still plastered on his face. "That I am, dear girl."

She blinked rapidly. "But, but how? Oh, nothing makes sense," she suddenly put a hand to her forehead. Noticing her shaken state, Barnabas swiftly assisted her to an armchair.

"Roger, this news has come as a sort of shock to Miss Winters. Maybe you could get her a drink?"

For once lacking a sardonic reply at this sudden turn of events, Roger numbly complied, placing a brandy into Vicki's jittery hands.

Slick as an eel, Nicholas knelt gallantly before her, forcing his eyes into a nobly familial and melancholy expression. "Dear niece, forgive me. This _is _far too abrupt a shock to your system. I apologize, but I simply had no idea how to approach you properly once I found out."

"Found out?" Carolyn asked.

"Yes. Up until a few months ago, I had as little idea about your existence as you did about mine, Victoria. My twin sister was your mother. Unfortunately, she had had a falling out with our family before you were born, and it was worsened by her..._condition_ with you. Therefore, my parents never told me about you. I was away at college at the time. Despite the chilly relations between my parents and my sister, I was always very fond of her. If I had known, I'd have come for you at once! Unfortunately, it was only after my parents died recently that I found a note about you in the family papers."

Vicki wet her pale lips. "And my mother?"

Nicholas closed his eyes and frowned. "Long dead, I am afraid."

Vicki shook her head, and there was the faintest panicky gleam in her bright eyes. "No. No. This is too much. Too much."

Elizabeth, sitting at the edge of the couch close beside her, placed a gentle hand on her knee. "Calm down, Vicki. It will be all right," she assured her in a quiet voice. The Collinwood matriarch was paying rapt attention to Blair's words, on the lookout for any inconsistency in his story compared to the one Betty had told her.

"Tell me, what was your sister's name, Mr. Blair?" she asked, affecting dispassionate curiosity.

"Beth Blair."

Liz immediately smelled a rat. "Really?" she sniffed. "Well, Vicki, I guess we can put to rest the theory you had of _Betty Handscombe _being your mother," she said with an undertone of icy dubiety.

She had no idea the depths of how cunning Nicholas Blair could be. He straightened, surprised recognition in his features. "Betty Handscombe, did you say?"

Liz nodded, staring shrewdly and frankly into Nicholas's eyes.

"Why, I'll never," Nicholas gasped.

"What is it?"

"That must have been Beth's name she used in town so our parents couldn't track her! Betty for Beth, and Handscombe because it was my mother's maiden name. Of course!"

Liz sank down into her seat. "Oh," she breathed. That certainly did make sense, now that Liz thought about it. A homeless, unwed mother running away from home. Why _should _she give Elizabeth her real name?

Roger recovered his equanimity. "My, my, Vicki. At long last your mysterious past revealed. How do you feel?"

Vicki stared into Nicholas's eyes.

There were few people in the world as trusting as Victoria Winters. She was one of those rare souls who believed the best in people, and if proven wrong in her initial assumption, had enough grace to still hold onto the thought that there must still be some good inside, buried away. She rarely met a person with whom she did not immediately feel kindly and sympathetic toward.

Yet as she stared into the dark eyes of her supposed uncle, she felt an inexplicable chill run up her spine.

She looked away.

"I, I don't know," she answered at last. "It's all too incredible, too sudden! What, what about my father?"

Nicholas shook his head sadly. "Unfortunately, I never found out about him. Beth wouldn't tell my parents. She spent a great deal of time here in Collinsport, so it very well could have been a resident here."

Liz shifted in her seat.

"With Beth and my parents gone, I'm afraid I'm all the family left to you, Victoria," Nicholas said softly, taking her hand gently.

Despite that instinctual voice in her mind keeping her from trusting him completely, Vicki nevertheless felt touched by this simple gesture, Nicholas's cold fingers pressing into her palm with respectful delicacy.

Barnabas cleared his throat. "I do hate to intrude on this certainly private matter, but might I inquire what it is you do, Mr. Blair?" His penetrating eyes were upon Nicholas, trying to bore into this man's untold secrets.

"I'm an art dealer," Nicholas answered readily. "I sell old paintings and bric-a-brac to antique shops and galleries. I've got quite a thing going right now with an antique dealer in Bangor."

"Is that where I'm from?" Vicki asked eagerly. "When I was at the orphanage I was sent money from there. Do you think my grandparents…?"

Nicholas frowned, apparently perplexed. "I doubt it. We're from New York. But they very well could have wired the money from Bangor, I don't know." He shrugged.

Liz breathed more easily, content that Nicholas seemingly knew so little of the actual arrangement.

As easily and gracefully as he had knelt down, Nicholas swept to his feet again. He spoke in dulcet, solicitous tones to the stunned girl sitting before him. "Victoria…Vicki. I know you are adjusting to all this. But you can't tell how eager I am to get to know you. It was wrong of me to watch you and that little David, and then to frighten you with that note. Especially," he rubbed his neck awkwardly. "Especially since I must have gotten your birthday wrong, judging by the snippet of conversation I just overheard in here! I could have sworn that was the date on the note Mother wrote. It was a terribly clumsy move on my part. Please…and I don't blame you if you decline, and if you'd like some more time to think things over…but…won't you _please _join me for a nightcap, or a bite to eat? I'd very much enjoy speaking to you alone. Not to offend anyone here," he indicated ingratiatingly to the assembled Collins clan.

Roger stepped in. "Why, I think that's a splendid idea! Vicki, you can't say no. You've been searching so earnestly for your family and for so long that there is no possible way you can turn this invitation down."

"Unless," Barnabas interjected, watching Vicki's face carefully, "You _do _think this is too soon for you, Vicki."

Vicki stared again at the man before her, her uncle. She stared at his carefully groomed black mustache, his keen eyes, his small teeth set in that Cheshire Cat grin.

And she couldn't help the small part of her that recoiled.

Still….

If what he said was true….

Family.

Real family.

She stood, the beginnings of a small, unsure smile forming on her face. "Yes, Nicholas. I'd be thrilled to join you."

* * *

In a secluded corner at The Blue Whale, at a table for two, Nicholas's narrow eyes watched everything.

He watched the Winters girl's face as she hesitantly let her guard down, gradually warming to him as he added lie upon lie onto her imaginary background. The pretty words came easily, as if he were called upon to recite an insipid nursery rhyme from his youth.

_Hm. His youth._

With his second sight, he saw more than what his eyes alone could see.

First, he saw Barnabas Collins watching from behind the lamp post outside the pub's window, the vampire distrusting this man completely—after all, even if Nicholas _were _the one to have written Vicki that note, what about the one that Barnabas received? Certainly a long lost uncle would have no motivation for leaving such a message.

But still Nicholas's sight revealed one thing more: obscured by shadows, peering out from behind an adjoining shop corner, stood Dr. Anton Phibes. Dr. Phibes knew that Nicholas had been the one orchestrating the attack on Victoria at the River of Life, and yet here he was now claiming kinship to her.

Indeed, Miss Victoria's two admirers must be quite curious about the motivation behind Nicholas's current actions.

It was all the sorcerer could do to keep his kindly, avuncular mask in check, when he so very much wanted to laugh frankly into those two ghostly faces outside.

But he remained dedicated to Diablos's will, and continued upping the charm in Vicki's direction.

But then Nicholas saw something else entirely. Saw with his own eyes, without any need of a mystical second sight.

Something in him stopped, stilled by the force of a sudden shock.

What he saw came forward, recognizing his companion.

Maggie Evans's smile was wide and brilliant. "Vicki! Hi!" She said in her garrulous, bright voice. "How are you?"

Nicholas's keen, narrow eyes took in the long auburn hair, the gleaming brown eyes, and the smile. That smile.

Elfin and pert, warm and genuine.

Something had stopped inside Nicholas Blair. And something else began to start, springing to life with painful vitality.

Dr. Phibes and Barnabas Collins could have told him what that meant, for every time they saw Victoria, they felt exactly the same surge of unstoppable life coursing through their own undead veins.


End file.
